


Kinktober 2017 (& a little Goretober, too)

by omegaxibir



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Amputation, Amputation Kink, Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, BDSM Scene, Blackwatch Era, Blood, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Boot Worship, Cannibalism, Consensual Violence, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Gore, Humiliation, Kinktober, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Gore, Mouth injury, Oral Sex, Pegging, Scent Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys, Spanking, Strap-Ons, Threesome - M/M/M, Trans Male Character, Trans Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison, Vaginal Fingering, Verbal Humiliation, boot licking, wound fucking kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-01-08 17:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12258834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omegaxibir/pseuds/omegaxibir
Summary: Just a bunch of various pornographic scenes of Gabriel Reyes and his boyfriends Jack Morrison and Jesse McCree.Features always-trans Jack Morrison; female-coded vocabulary is used for Jack's anatomy, but he doesn't mind.Kink prompts will be listed as chapter titles, and all gore will be appropriately tagged, so you can skip and read as you wish!UPDATE: Chapter 5 & 6 are up, but PLEASE read their summaries before continuing!





	1. Impact Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After fucking up a mission, Jack seeks a form of release that only Jesse can provide. Subverting their usual roles, Jesse takes control of the scene, spanking Jack in punishment until he believes he's adequately repented.

    Try not to think. Not to linger. Jack tells himself that, even as he runs through his mistakes one more time, trying to shoulder all of the blame, and pinpoint every one of his own faults. It’s not until he closes the door behind him that he can start to let that go. It’s different here. He doesn’t have to be Commander Morrison here, doesn’t have to be Soldier: 76.

    Here, he can just be Jack.  
  
    Leaning down to unlace his boots, he grunts in pain, muscles aching, bruises blooming all the way down to the bone. His shoulders are heavy and his eyes are heavier. Though he can try to slip out of that old mantle on his own, it’s easier with help. Always has been, always will be.

  
   “Jesse,” he calls, voice cutting through the pleasant stillness of the house. The sound is almost enough to startle him, making him blink as he remembers the sound of his own voice.  
  
   “I’m here, darlin’,” Jesse responds immediately; Jack hears his feet hit the floor, the steady footsteps bringing him near. Although his skin is obscured by jackets, gloves, pants, he can tell he’s hurt, sees it in the way he delicately shifts his weight from one foot to the other, how he uses only a limited range of movement in his arms. He wishes this weren’t familiar, but he knows that body language like the back of his hand. Leaning in, he presses a kiss to Jack’s forehead, hands moving to touch his slim waist. “How’s my favorite outlaw?”

  
   The question is just absurd enough to prompt a short laugh from Jack, and he shakes his head, bringing up both hands to press at the delicate series of locks and buttons to disengage his mask. It slips down into his hands after a moment, revealing the scarred remnants of his face; a pink mesh of scars extends from beneath his visor, pulling the skin taut, while a slash across his mouth forcibly peels back his lips, giving a glimpse of his teeth. Jesse doesn’t flinch away, his expression instead softening, one big hand reaching up to gently touch his cheek in a gesture of support.  
  
    “Tired,” Jack says simply, reaching out blindly to pull him close, turning to bury his face in Jesse’s scruffy neck. He’s quiet for a moment before he continues, as though the words are being dragged out of him. “Talon is... more on guard for me, these days. Nothing went as smoothly as I’d have liked.”   
  
     Jesse doesn’t have anything to say to that, nothing that wouldn’t disturb the carefully unspoken tension between them. Instead, he lends silent support, giving physical solidarity even if he can’t bring himself to mentally support this endeavor of the Soldier.  
  
     Shifting, Jack pulls slightly away, hand squeezing at his side. “Help me debrief, Jess?”  
  
     It’s a phrase that Jesse knows intimately, and he knows immediately what Jack will need, what their roles are. Who is he to ever turn down Jack Morrison? He nods, squeezing and gently rubbing at Jack’s broad shoulders, seeking to help ease the tension there. “Yeah, all right, chief. Anything you need.”

  
    That affirmation melts away the tension faster than any massage ever could. Where once stood an uptight, commanding figure, now Jack all but cowers, chin lowering, his shoulders drooping, impeccable posture fading in a matter of seconds. “I failed my mission, sir,” he says, quickly packing away thirty years as a tactical officer to effortlessly don the clothes of the subordinate. It’s not a seamless transition, his voice still sharp and commanding, the subtleties of his body language still reeking of a superior, but they know their positions; their roles are well-defined. “I should have tried harder.”  
  
      “Damn right, you should’ve. Probably let yourself get distracted,” Jesse snaps back, eyes narrowing. He searches his blind face for a moment, finds some form of confirmation, and reaches forward, squeezing his hand for a moment before locking his fingers around his wrist like manacles. An insistent tug gets them both moving, as Jesse leads him around the corner to the couch. Jesse settles easily against the cushions, and Jack doesn’t need any prompting to sink into position, laying his hips across Jesse’s thighs, forearms bracing against the couch cushions. Jesse considers him there for a moment, the straight, strong length of his back, the way his hips cut into his lap, the firm curve of his ass. “Other way ‘round, private. Gonna use my left hand. That’s punishment, kid.”

  
    Jesse's left hand means cold, unyielding punishment: the metal of his prosthetic arm is harsher than any whip or paddle. It’s enough to make Jack hesitate, body stiffening, before he gives in to it, obligingly repositioning to face the other direction, always the good Soldier. His heart thuds in his chest like a boy of twenty, not fifty, but he isn’t scared - not with Jesse. Jack twists for a moment, supporting himself on his elbows as he carefully disengages his visor, blinking milky, scarred eyes as they hit open air. Then he’s lying submissively again, face pressed against his arms, counting his breaths as he braces himself for the first impact.  
  
    It doesn’t come how he anticipates it. It comes first as a flesh-warm hand pressing at the hem of his shirt, pushing it up his back to reveal a stepladder of vertebra and dark, mottled seas of bruises.  _Nobody bruises like you,_ Jesse thinks, caressing over them with the barest of touches, making Jack’s hair stand on end. Just as sweetly, he presses the pad of his thumb into the middle of a bruise, digging it in harshly enough to make Jack hiss through his teeth, turning his head to face away. He’s itching to put a few more bruises on him, to mark him up and have Jack thank him for it.  
  
   “You wanna count for me, sweetheart?” The endearment almost breaks the immersion, but they’re both ready for this, Jack filled with a shy eagerness unbefitting of a man of fifty. Jesse hitches up his left sleeve to the elbow, baring the elegant prosthetic, before he pistons his arm down, giving a sharp smack to Jack’s clothed ass. He feels Jack jerk, body automatically trying to move away, so he settles his right hand on the back of Jack’s neck, a reminder that he will  _stay_ there until he’s done with him. “ ‘less you don’t want me to bother easing you into it? Huh? Wanna take whatever I got to give?” He asks, roughly squeezing one ass cheek, lamenting that the prosthetic can’t get the real feeling of the firmness there.  
  
    Jack audibly swallows, wetting his lips before he responds. “I’ll count, sir,” he manages, voice choked with a heady combination of pain and arousal. “I’m yours to use. Whatever you need, sir, I’m here. That’s... one.” Laying like this, he can shrink down his world until it’s nothing but Jesse, Jesse, Jesse: the musky, almost sour scent of him; the overwhelming heat of his body, always running too hot; the rolling drawl that makes each syllable drip out like honey. Nothing exists but him, Jesse, and this punishment. It’s all he needs.  
  
   That’s more than enough to entice Jesse to continue. The next smack is across the other cheek, followed by one over the crease of his thigh, and then another back where he started. Obedient as a dog, Jack calls out each spanking, keeping track of each one. True to his word, he eases Jack in; the first hits aren’t soft, but Jack can feel him holding back, knows the worst is yet to come.

  
   Jesse shifts him on his lap, angling him so he can reach beneath him, fidgeting with his zipper. He’s an impatient man, always has been, and Jack is reminded of it when Jesse tugs his tight pants down to his knees; he considers taking his boxers down with them, but leaves that thin layer of fabric to soften the next few blows. It’s a herculean effort, wanting desperately to see the round swell of his ass, and the red welts that no doubt mark it. The anticipation of that view makes his cock start to chub up, and he gives a low, appreciative groan, settling Jack across his lap once more. “Gonna give you a couple like this, first. Keep counting, boy.”  
  
   “Five. S-...ix. Seven. Eight.” He barely flinches, but he huffs against the cushions, heart jackhammering in his throat. The muscles of his lower back and thighs twitch and jerk of their own accord, a little show just for Jesse, as subtly erotic as anything he could imagine. His eyes travel the length of his back, the purple bruises, the definition of muscle, a hint of red welts near the waistband of his boxers. His cock twitches in his jeans, slowly hardening, and Jesse needs more, more, wants to eat him up, see and mark every inch of him. That’s the only real thought on his mind when he pulls down his boxers, desperate to see him. His ass is cherry red with hand-shaped welts, and when he touches it with his right hand, pinching and squeezing one hairy cheek and then the other, he feels the inflamed heat there.  
  
   He doesn’t use his right hand for long, quickly snapping himself back to attention and pulling it away, instead tapping two cold fingers against his thigh. “Spread your legs.” This time, there’s no hesitation in following his orders; the pants around his knees stymie him, but he pulls his thighs apart as far as he can manage, baring himself completely. Jesse whistles, low and appreciative, his mouth watering at the pretty sight. The barest hint of his cunt shows from between his thighs, little more than a glimpse of white stubble and a sweet cleft. It’s a testament to his dedication to this role that he doesn’t roll Jack over and tear off his clothes to fuck him until he cries; he can all but feel him bouncing on his cock, warm and wet, a perfect hole made just for him....  
  
     A snap of his wrist breaks them out of it. It’s not a gentle, loving smack, not the kind of thing that stings for a moment and then quickly fades. No, this will bruise dark purple and light green within the hour, leaving his ass sore enough to be painful when he lays down beside him for the night. Angry red welts bloom like flowers across his cheeks, the petals spreading wider and wider with each new slap. His ass jiggles with each hit, and he shouts hoarsely when Jesse’s fingers snap across his cunt, taking him by surprise. Jack wouldn’t have it any other way. Jesse is the one he answers to now, the one who governs and polices him and gives him what he  _deserves_.

    That, more than the burning pain, is what arouses him. His nipples are hard under his shirt, sending sparks to his gut with each infinitesimal hint of friction. Wetness gathers in the heat of his cunt, leaving hints of salty-sweet slick against Jesse’s fingers; when he pulls his hand away, a delicate string connects his hand to his cunt. It all coalesces into a needy heat in his belly, building second by second, making him arch and moan, an old slut desperate for Jesse to _handle_ him. Jesse’s eyes are half-lidded as he watches him, flesh hand carefully pinning him face-down into the couch, and he can’t help but think of the differences between them - the twenty years in age separating them, his old man with frost-white hair and the hints of wrinkles, the tiny beginnings of paunch in front of the hard muscles of his abdominals. His old man. _His_.  
  
    It doesn’t stop him, doesn’t make him go easier. If anything, the spankings get harder, rougher, as he goes, as if trying to make Jack pay for making him want him this badly. By now, his erection is at full mast, his jeans uncomfortably tight. Jack can feel it against his hip, but he doesn’t dare grind down like he wants to. He’s not _allowed_.

    “Sir,” Jack begs, no hint of shame or pretense in the single whined syllable. “I’ll do better next time, sir. I swear.” Jesse pulls his hand away to consider, trailing the tip of one finger from the base of his spine to the cleft of his ass, letting it slowly delve down to graze his pussy. For a moment, he lingers at his twitching hole, and then he shoves his wrist between his thighs, tapping against his engorged clit. The light touch is enough to make Jack twitch and writhe on him, shoving his ass further in the air to encourage further ministrations. Seeing his pussy from behind like this makes Jesse give a long, unabashed groan, and he rewards him with another touch against his clitoris, rubbing circles around it.  
  
   “I ain’t sure you will, Private. I think you’re gonna do exactly what you wanna do. And you’re gonna end up right here again -” a light slap against his cunt, “- and again -” another, “- and again.” As much as he doesn’t want to, he extricates his hand from between those muscular thighs, gives a heavy slap to his ass as if in punctuation. “I think you like this.” His voice is a low growl now, rolling off his tongue sweet as honey, and Jack gives a whimper that wouldn’t be out of place in a porno. “I think you do whatever it takes to end up right here, on my lap, where you belong. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?”  
  
    Endorphins make Jack dizzy, heart thumping in his chest, each resounding slap echoing in his ears, playing over and over until he’s in a frenzy, more animal than man. It’s bliss. It’s release. They both need it like this, a subversion of their lives, so they can make it through another day.

  
    “Commander,” he croaks out, overwhelmed with a warm combination of arousal and pain. Even behind the thick lacing of scars, Jesse can see the pink flush over his cheeks, how it has spread to the top of his chest as he turns on his side to face him. He considers reaching down, pinching a nipple until he cries, but decides to hear him out. “I want to make you proud. I want to do right by you, sir, I m-... mean it.” How was this man ever a Strike Commander, Jesse wonders, stroking down the mountains of his vertebra, pressing into the spongy flesh of the dark bruises near his kidneys. There’s something erotic about pressing into those bruises, like they serve as a replacement for the pretty cunt displayed to him; those same fingers could be dipping into the sweetness of his pussy, crook his fingers and make Jack  _scream_ his name,  _Commander, Sir--_... but he doesn’t. Jack doesn’t deserve that yet.  
  
     “I say you could talk, Private?” Jack stiffens, but Jesse doesn’t miss the slickness drooling down his thigh at those words.  
  
     “I want--” he breaks off into a startled shout, unyielding metal slapping against his bared cunt. His spine arches, not to escape, but to press for more, his metal feet digging into the couch cushions in a last-ditch effort to control himself. He gives up trying to speak, instead burying his face back into the couch, striving to muffle his grunts as Jesse returns to his punishment. How  _proud_ Jesse is, to have reduced such a proud, strong man to a mewling mess on his lap. He takes his time with the next hits, making a concerted effort not to hit the same spot twice in a row; he layers them across each ass cheek, his thighs, against his cunt. Jack has dripped a dark spot of slick against Jesse’s jeans, and he slaps his pussy in silent punishment, watches his fat clitoris twitch in response.  
  
    That’s all he can take. “Str-i-ike complete,” Jack gasps, fingers curling as he finally spits out their safe word. His ass will bruise badly and he’ll be sore for a week, but he doesn’t want to have to pop a nano-field to heal this up -- and he’s positive that if he’s spanked just once more, he’ll have to. This is his reminder, and he wants to keep it.

  
     After so many years of the same safe word, it’s muscle memory for Jesse to instantly pull back, drop his hands, and let Jack have a moment to gather himself. Hell, he needs one himself. He exhales slowly, wipes his wet fingers against his shirt. “You did good, darlin’,” Jesse tells him, gently strokes through his thinning hair, fingers touching the scarred flesh at the corner of his eyes. His other hand rests on his back, carefully avoiding the dark marks on his ass to prevent undue pain. “Real good. Real good. You want me to take care of this?” He asks, prodding a metal thumb at the lips of his cunt, where round, fat drops of wetness are clinging. He wants to, god, so badly, but he won’t unless Jack gives his permission. Just seeing Jack so keyed up makes his cock throb needily in his pants, precum staining his boxers.  
  
   Jack swallows, wetting his dry lips, and nods. “You won’t hear me saying no, cowboy,” he manages, voice still strained and rough, breaking into a huffing laugh. His thighs are still trapped by the pants around his knees, but he parts them as much as he’s able, canting his hips up to properly show off the short, white stubble of his cunt. “You think I deserve it, Jess?”  
  
     “‘Course you do,” he says, and hell, even if he didn’t, there’s no way Jesse could tell him no, not with that pretty cunt in his face. “I got you, Jackie. I got you.” While his flesh hand stays against his cheek, thumb caressing a line down to his lips before rubbing there, his prosthetic mirrors the movement, two fingers spreading open the lips of his pussy, dipping his middle finger into his hole. It’s slow, gentle, a stark contrast to the harsh discipline Jesse had doled out just minutes ago. He eases in, slowly fucking him open so he can press in two fingers, the metal stretching him further than flesh could. It’s cold, too-smooth when it rubs at his clit, and it drives him _wild_ , quickly reducing Jack to humping at his hand. The sounds coming from his sloppy cunt are rivaled only by the whorish noises from Jack’s own mouth; he whines and huffs, grunting like a young man.  
  
    Ever needy, Jack reaches behind himself, grabbing at ass and thighs to part his pussy so Jesse can more easily touch him. His own hands dig into the bruises now, but Jack only hisses for a moment, eagerly welcoming that mixture of pleasure and pain. Jesse takes advantage, quickly angling his hand so he can get direct contact with his swollen clit, rubbing insistently against it.

  
     “I’m close,” Jack whines, voice barely recognizable now. It barely serves as a warning, however, as he comes thirty seconds later, thighs spasmodically clenching around Jesse’s wrist, trapping him there, his cunt pulsing and throbbing around the two metal fingers hastily plunged there. The metal of his wrist rubs against the crack of Jack’s ass, and Jack shoves back against it, wanting to  _ride_ it, trying to feel it against his thighs, his cunt, desperate for it to be everywhere at once. “McCree, fuck, oh christ-- ....”  
  
     Jesse doesn’t stop, doesn’t stop his ministrations until Jack is finished trembling in his lap, his voice finally quiet as he tries to catch his breath. He offers murmured encouragements, petting his hair as he releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “You good, Jack?” Jack just grunts, giving a vague nod, still riding high as a kite. “You mind if I rub one out, honey?”  
  
          “I’d be offended if you didn’t, cowboy.”


	2. Video (& Multiple Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Reaper finds himself reminiscing over an old video of his lovers; Jesse does the same, and thinks that maybe things didn't change so much after all. 
> 
> Features Jack/Jesse/Gabriel all together, participating in making a porno. Also has some slight mention of vague gore, and has Gabriel with multiple sets of eyes. Enjoy!

His handler is fucking with him. He has to be; the odds of this being some shitty cosmic accident are too fucking low, and the Reaper has never been one to believe in accidents in the first place. This has to be punishment for something, he thinks. Too much about it is fishy. He hasn’t been forced to do desk work since Blackwatch -- hell, even then, half the time he’d push it off onto somebody else.

An agent found an old Overwatch server, his handler says, and we’re thinking it might lead to some information on runaway agents. Go through it, Reaper.

“This is really how you want me to spend my time?” It falls on deaf ears, and he feels infuriatingly powerless, gritting his teeth as he settles in to explore the newest dead end.

But an hour in, Reaper is _certain_ his handler is fucking with him. The server is old, dating back to the earliest years of Blackwatch, but it mostly houses cloud documents credited to Jack fucking Morrison’s computer. Reaper avoids the glut of pictures stored there like the goddamn plague, instead skimming dozens of old text files and emails; he finds a single list of names, and prints it as a cursory effort to get his handler off his back. He’s thinking about the merits of simply wiping the drive and calling it a day, when he finds a horribly innocuous file labelled as ‘classified.mp4.’

“Really, Jack?” He grumbles, resting his chin in his hand as he goes to play the file. Sure, the server was as secure as they come, but way to be _subtle_ , Commander. It has to be a joke, he thinks, there’s no other way.

In the end, it is, but it’s not the kind he expected. The file only has to play for a total of three seconds before Reaper slams the window closed, nearly choking on his own spit. God, that file must be what- eight, ten years old now?

“What the fuck,” he sighs, rubbing at his temples. He tells himself he’s not going to go back and watch it. Not in a thousand fucking years.

To his credit, he lasts a whole eight hours.

 -//-

The video is graphic from the second it starts: Jack holds the camera in both hands, aiming at his own pale thighs, which give a stark contrast to the dark skin of Gabriel’s shoulders, which are firmly fitted between them. Jack’s knees are hitched up over his shoulders, resting easily, the crease of his hip telling him that he’s sitting up, so he can get a nice view of everything.

It’s strange, looking at himself. There’s a familiarity there that blends into the uncanny; that man there is foreign, not him at all. The Gabriel in front of the camera is stretched out comfortably, all his weight on his arms and knees as he tries to brace himself against how roughly Jesse is fucking him, his face obscured where it has buried itself in the heat between Jack’s thighs. All dark skin and comfortable posture, an ease and familiarity that the Reaper hasn’t felt in-- years.

Jack tilts the camera up, panning to get a good view of the man behind Gabe. “How you doin’ back there, Jess?” Jesse looks like he’s doing just fine. Reaper can’t take his eyes off him, some useless mantra repeating in his head of ‘fuck, you look so _good_.’ Jesse is all long, dark limbs, his stomach and chest thick and broad with muscle, hair smattered from tits down to his stomach. Strong hands squeeze at Gabriel’s hips, making the flesh curve and mold to the joints of each finger, like he was made to serve Jesse. For his part, Jesse looks up to the camera, giving a sleazy, lazy grin as he lifts his hand in a quick salute. When he drops it back down, it’s to give Gabriel’s ass a hard slap, loud enough to sound tinny through the camera’s shitty speakers.

Satisfied with the shot, Jack pans the camera back down for a view that Reaper would conservatively call _satisfactory_. Gabe is shoved face-first into his cunt, each rough thrust from behind forcing him against his thighs and pussy, his tongue disappearing into Jack’s hole. He hears each thrust, the steady stream of curses from Jesse, the filthy wet sounds of Gabe’s chin colliding with wet pussy. “Smile for the camera, babe,” Jack tells him, and he only glares in return.

Reaper feels almost as though he shouldn’t be watching this - like he’s a voyeur, spying on someone else’s life. The feeling doesn’t last long, the whole video nursing a growing erection that he chooses to focus on instead. He takes his eyes away from the video just long enough to get his dick out of his pants, the sounds of the video more than enough to serve him well: the slap of skin on skin, the irregular panting and groans from all three men, the sound of filthy wet kissing every time Gabriel is able to pull his tongue out of Jack’s cunt long enough to kiss his clit.

He lets out a slow breath, spits on his palm, gets to work.

Back on screen, he can see Jack’s free hand stroking through the short curls of Gabriel’s hair, so effortlessly natural in the way he gives him an affectionate brush over his cheekbone - and fuck, they were so in love back then, so hot for each other all the time. Jack’s panting a little, right against the camera, but he’s managing to mostly keep his composure. The same can’t be said of Gabriel, who is being fucked mercilessly, Jesse reaching beneath him to stroke his cock and roll his balls in his palm. He’s visibly losing it, and he can tell they’re both _living_ for it.

Reaper curses under his breath, desire curling tendrils into every limb, an inescapable heat coiling deep into the pit of his stomach. Clawed hands squeeze at the base of his cock, dragging the rough pads of his fingertips over the ridge of each piercing before he circles his thumb around his cockhead, and then slides it back down. Already, he’s dripping pre-cum, a perfect pearl on the slit of his cock, and he can’t help but huff a tiny laugh at how _hot_ he is over something so juvenile as a porno.

It doesn’t stop him from looking back up in time to see Jesse curse up a fucking storm - always a telltale sign he was close - and fold his body over Gabriel’s to whisper all those tiny indecencies against his shoulders, layering almost tender kisses against the santa muerte tattoo there. The Reaper can almost feel the ghosts of his breath, the wetness of his lips and the scratch of his beard against his tattoo; he turns his face heavenwards, almost overwhelmed. He hears as the thrusting abruptly ends, Jesse cumming deep inside him, then a low mumble that the camera doesn’t quite pick up. It’s probably an _I love you_ or something similar, Reaper thinks, and part of him wishes he could hear it. The other part thinks it’s for the best that he can’t.

Jack won’t stop touching him, holding the camera with only one hand as the other grabs at Gabe’s hair, his shoulders, occasionally pressing him down like he could possibly get any closer - as if his mouth wasn’t already firmly around his clit. Reaper is close by the time Jack passes the camera over to Jesse, who straightens up and slowly pulls out of Gabe’s ass. The view is filthy, sinful: god, he’s looking at himself, watching cum drip out of his hole and down his balls, watching as Jesse rubs it into his skin with his cockhead. “Jesus christ, look at that,” Jesse says, and he can only barely make out Jack asking him, “You want to come, Gabriel? You wanna get off?” And fuck, if that isn’t enough to send him over the edge almost instantly, coming before he can stop himself, cock twitching and spurting into his hand. He jerks himself through it, desperate to cling to that feeling, not stopping until he’s over-sensitive and strung out.

“Fuck,” he hisses, shuts the video off. Fuck. He shouldn’t have watched it. It’s not going to leave his mind for a long while.

 -//-

As it turns out, it never quite leaves his mind at all. It’s something he brings up once he’s settled back into a routine with them; once the old grudges are all smoothed over, and they’re learning how to be comfortable enough with each other, he decides it’s worth broaching. He brings up that he found the old file, and he watches Jack’s face go a shade of pink he’d forgotten he was capable of. It’s easy to laugh about it.

“But in seriousness,” Reaper says, “Let’s do it again. No reason not to. I mean, sure, Jack can’t see it, but he can still listen.”

They’re older now, and they’ve got a little more pride - a little more shame - but a couple bottles passed between the three of them is enough to entice them to go at it again with just as much fervor as a decade earlier.

 -//-

Jesse’s the first one to watch it, alone in their room with a lit cigar and an hour to kill. He looks at his boys all the time, takes the opportunity to stare at them every chance he gets, but this? This is different, all angles he’s never seen, expressions he’s always blinked and missed.

Gabriel’s holding the camera, hoisted up on his elbows so he can focus in on Jack riding him, his prosthetic legs detached so that his thighs are doing all the work of moving; Gabriel has one hand on his hip to help steady him. “Hey, gorgeous,” Gabe says, and the buzzing of his nanites is more pronounced by the electronics of the camera, but, Jesse finds, it’s not unpleasant. Jack laughs, deep and frayed at the edges, taps his fingers against Gabe’s tit. “You pointing that camera at me?”

“Ain’t the only thing he’s pointin’ at you,” Jesse hears himself say off camera. There’s a brief shuffling as Jesse reaches to take it from him, then angles it down. He can see his own stomach, soft around the edges and dark hair all the way down his thighs. Gabriel’s head is in his lap, lolling back to look up at him. “Ain’t that right, sugar?” True to form, Gabriel flips him off, then turns his head and drags his tongue up the side of Jesse’s cock, leaving a shiny trail of spit.

Watching it, Jesse feels himself quickly growing hard; maybe a thousand things have changed about them over the years, but goddamn if Gabriel Reyes can’t still suck cock with the best of them. It’s not to say everything’s the same, of course. Jesse can count a hundred differences. Gabriel doesn’t bother keeping his nanites under strict control when he’s getting fucked like this, and it shows in the way patches of flesh on his neck and shoulders start to melt away, exposing muscle and tendon, the glinting white of his collarbones gleaming in the light of the camera. He’s never really gotten a good look at it before, always too preoccupied. Something twists in his stomach, a heavy mixture of nostalgia, affection, regret- and a steady, insistent stream of arousal. It’s strong, quickly whisking him away, and before he can help it, he’s clamping his teeth around his cigar to get his jeans unzipped.

That arousal only continues to intensify when the camera angles towards Jack, watching him fuck himself on Gabriel. From here, the stumps of his thighs are on full display: the thick scars covering the stumps where his thighs end, a hundred more forming an intricate lace down his arms, chest, face, eyes. Half of them were there before the explosion, but the other half - the worst of it - is all from the explosion.

Jesse hisses through his teeth, jerks himself off a little faster. He doesn’t want to get caught up in thinking about all that, but he can’t stop looking at them, can’t stop thinking about how different they are now. It’s hard to forget that, when Jack is missing half his body, and Gabriel’s is falling apart on screen, his fingertips blackened and tipped in sharp claws. A dozen eyes sprout into existence even as Jesse watches, Gabriel’s skin interrupted by blooms of red scleras and thin black pupils. He wonders if Gabriel doesn’t like them best that way. Always had a flair for the dramatic. The pupils look everywhere at once: up at Jack, back at Jesse, opening and closing, there and then gone. Jesse wonders if Gabriel can see through them, wonders if it crowds his brain with a dozen images of them, a dozen views of his cock, of Jack’s cunt as it spreads around him, of the flush across Jesse’s chest and face. All those eyes, and all they’re doing is watching - watching their owner, watching his lovers. No wonder Gabriel doesn’t bother to hide them.

When Jesse comes, it’s from trying to imagine it. He thinks about being able to see both of them at once, about being able to watch Gabriel suck his cock without having to look away from Jack on top of him. He spills over his fingers, hot and sticky, body tensing and tension releasing as he lets out a slow breath, letting smoke curl out from between his lips.

It’s different, he thinks, stubbing his cigar out in the ashtray next to their bed. Jack doesn’t complain about them smoking inside the way he used to. There’s a whole lot that’s different, now. His boys used to be absolutely stunning; nobody could ever stop talking about how handsome they were. That’s not how it is anymore, not really, but Jesse thinks there’s a whole lot of ways perfection can look.


	3. Toys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a bit of dirty-talk through comms, Jack comes home to play with Jesse. Tonight's object of desire? A pretty little strap-on. 
> 
> Features both Jesse and Jack being referenced with female-coded language; neither minds, to say the least. A bit of amputee-appreciation hidden in there, too.

“You nearly home, darlin’?”

Just that voice is enough to soothe and arouse all at once; Jack’s lips twitch into a faint smile, blessedly hidden by his mask. Slipping the keys out of his pocket, he responds in the affirmative: “You could say so.” 

Jesse all but trots to meet him at the door, quickly wrapping an arm around his waist to pull him close and dramatically sweep him down to press a wet kiss against his mask. Gloved fingers curl into Jesse’s greasy hair, playfully tugging before laughing and shoving him back. “Down, boy. I’m here, give me a minute,” he teases. Always the jester, Jesse yips like a pup, snuffling at his ear and hair until Jack is reduced to giggles, sounding like a young man again. It’s an odd juxtaposition to his scent of sweat and blood and a hint of the ozone that follows around the Soldier’s rifle, but Jesse can’t get enough of it, and thinks that he could most assuredly find a way to live off of smells alone. 

Really, the only reason he pulls away is because he knows what’s coming next. Remote comms are a blessing for plenty of reasons, but phone sex is easily among the top, and Jack is good at indulging him in that front. He’s whispering a blessing to all the gods he knows when Jack disengages the microchip implanted in his ear, dick chubbing up in an almost pavlovian reaction. A hand drops to cup Jack’s ass, squeezing before he steps back to let him have his space. 

“I got some things out for ya. Thought I’d make it a surprise.” Jack gives a noncommittal grunt in response, following at Jesse’s heels. No words are exchanged until they pass the threshold of the bedroom, identifiable by the smoke lingering from one of Jesse’s damned cigars. “Hands out, Commander,” Jesse says, and Jack obliges; they’ve long since gotten around his blindness, opting for the use of every other sense to make up for it. The first object to hit his palm is unmistakeable, and Jack laughs, curving his fingers around the shaft of a small dildo. 

“Now who could this be for - you, or me?” He asks, raising his other hand to try and feel out the details, curious to see just what Jesse had in mind for them. His palm cups silicone balls, and then his fingers rub past the telltale sign of leather. Nimbly following it, it’s made quickly apparent that the dildo has been fitted into a leather harness, the cold metal buckles on the side already unfastened to ease Jack’s way. “Shoulda guessed. You’re needy as hell, kid, you know that?” It’s teasing, a smile heard through his words. 

“Nah, Jackie, I ain’t that selfish. I figure we don’t need to bother with lube, when we’ve got you right here. How’s about I use it on you first, darlin’?” He really had thought this through much more than he’d let on through comms. Jack would be impressed, if he weren’t so insatiable. Licking his lips, Jesse waits for his response, his eyes dropping to watch Jack idly stroke at the pink dildo, thumb rubbing at the edge of the realistic glans. 

Another little grunt, and he starts pulling off clothes. That’s all Jesse needs to jump to attention, cock feeling suddenly  _ very _ warm within the confines of his jeans. It takes a few minutes, as it always does, to fully disrobe them. Jack has to be helped with laces and buckles, hands a little too numb from the recoil of his gun to handle them easily, but Jesse just considers it a treat, their own subtle foreplay. He doesn’t attend to his own clothing until Jack is already bare, fingers probing at the wires and buttons of his facial apparatus to disengage it in its entirety. By the time Jesse is throwing his boxers across the room, Jack is sat almost demurely on the edge of the bed, stark naked. Seeing him like that, shiny prosthetics gleaming, milky-pale eyes upturned and cunt on display, is enough to get Jesse embarrassingly hard in a moments notice. 

“Ya wanna keep your legs on, sweetheart?” He asks, running two fingers up Jack’s hairy thigh, appreciating the firm muscle there. 

“Not tonight. Too sore,” Jack admits, twisting his knee to lift up the delicate contraption, which has dug red pressure marks into the stumps of his thighs. “Help me out, huh?” 

As usual, Jesse doesn’t need telling twice. Bare as the night, he kneels down, running his fingers over titanium latches in a dance he knows backwards and forwards, almost effortlessly unlocking his legs to pull them off, carefully storing them beneath the bed.Jack leans back as he works, enjoying the intimacy inherent in having someone all but amputate his limbs. He relishes in the warmth of his hands against the scars on his legs, feeling each hot puff of breath against his crotch. He’d be lying if he tried to claim this didn’t get him going; it had from the onset, from the very first time Jesse had helped him with it. There was a trust there, a closeness that couldn’t be mirrored by anyone without such disabilities. 

He allows himself to become lost in that sea of tenderness and eroticism, head tilting back as Jesse’s hands abandon his prosthetics in favor of caressing the flesh of his thighs. Thumbs rub circles on his inner thighs, the backs of Jesse’s metal fingers stroking up to the crease of his hip. He knows when Jesse leans in, feels the proximity without ever being touched, so it doesn’t come as a surprise when a kiss is laid against the cleft of his cunt. He’s gorgeous like this, Jesse thinks, the lips of his pussy still pressed together to hide the delicate pinkness of him; it’s sultry, lewd but somehow not outright erotic - a promise of anticipation. 

Rather than have Jack part his thighs, he lets his tongue do the work for him. It starts as small, short licks, teasing at the crease of his groin and mound of his pubic bone, and then down, slowly laving across the lips of his cunt. There’s no rush, no greed, as he repeats the motion over and over, until Jack is sighing out pretty little breaths, giving infinitesimal movements of his hips in an effort to meet his tongue. He’s smiling against him when he lets his tongue probe deeper, just enough to let that salty wetness hit his tongue; Jack gives a deep, long groan, and Jesse feels his entire sex pulse around his mouth. 

As sweetly as it begins, it ends. Jack isn’t allowed to feel more than the tip of his tongue graze his clitoris before he is pulling back again, giving a few more compulsory kisses to his thighs and cunt before he shifts his weight back onto his haunches. Above him, Jack gives a huff, frowning as he orients his face towards him in an expression of clear annoyance. 

“Hey, you know the plan, Jackie, and this ain’t it,” he says, and he can’t help but laugh when Jack snaps out an expletive and lets himself fall back onto the bed. Between his thighs is a small wet spot, a single testament to his arousal. 

“Then get to fucking work.” 

This time, it’s just as much for his own selfishness as to sate Jack. The dildo isn’t particularly large, barely hitting five inches, but there’s something hot about that, something cute about it being small. Jesse takes it in his hands almost reverently, gripping it by the balls so he can gently rub the glans down the cleft of his cunt, mirroring what his tongue had done not a minute previously. Now unabashed, Jack throws his legs wide, and the lips of his sex open as if on cue, showing off the pinkish-red insides. His fat clitoris is poking out of its hood, looking for all the world like a tiny cock, and Jesse can’t help but tap the dildo against it, watching his inner lips twitch and clench in response. Jack squirms, trying to find a better position than simply letting his ass hang off the bed, but Jesse grabs one stump: “Stay right here. You look good like this.” 

It’s true. The round, fat girth of his ass hangs just over the edge of the bed, and Jack has raised his stumps up into the air, spread wide as he can manage without dislocating them. Jesse is given a view from his navel all the way down to the hairy crack of his ass, and he swears he’d do anything, goddamn  _ anything _ , to be able to see this every day of his life. 

He goes as slowly with the toy as with his mouth. It teasingly drags down the length of his slit, lingering to rub near his hole before returning to move circles around his clit, dragging his labia with it. When he moves further, it’s to press just the tip of the dildo into his hole; he feels him clench around it, feels the resistance as he tries to ease it in, but Jack never protests, never makes even a single noise of discomfort. No, he needs this, he always needs this. That self-same  _ need _ is what drives Jesse to press further in, never moving more than half an inch forward before slowly pulling it back out, letting it drag at his lips and walls. It comes back covered in wetness, shiny and sticky, and Jesse leans in to lick up a string of it as it drools out of his pussy. Jack squirms back and forth, head tossing and turning before he covers it with his forearms. He doesn’t moan yet, but he’s huffing and puffing like he’s got asthma, a charming remnant of the many years on Overwatch base when they had to do things like this  _ silently _ . 

“You wanna touch your nipples for me, Jackie? You’re not dripping as much as I want you to yet. Don’t make me bring out the big guns this early in the night....” Jack feels each word breathed against his thigh, and wonders how close his mouth is to him, and if he’s having to fight himself not to tongue-fuck his pussy instead. The notion jars him to action, and he moves his arms from over his face, reaching down to touch himself. A hand cups his tit, squeezing the firm muscle and massaging the edges, working his fingers slowly closer and closer to the nipple. By the time he properly reaches it, his nipples are fully hard without having been touched even once. They’re a shade of pink-red that is surprisingly similar to that of his cunt, but he’s oblivious to the fact; all that matters is that when he touches them, spasms of pure ecstasy course through his veins, making his spine arch in the throes of pleasure. Now, the moans come to him, a pinch to both nipples coinciding with Jesse sliding the dildo balls deep into him. 

Jesse works it faster into him, increasing the pace so slowly that Jack almost isn’t aware of the change of momentum. When he finally does, it’s fucking him quickly enough to make sinfully lewd squelching sounds. Jack’s thighs quiver, lower back arching to cant his hips closer, and Jesse immediately pulls the dildo out, making Jack cry out at the loss. A thick string of pussy juice connects the dildo to his hole, and Jesse gives a long, low groan, balls feeling so tight that he’s certain he could come right here, right now. 

“Yeah, that’s a good boy. You liked that, baby?” He asks, and Jack reaches blindly down to grab for his hair, trying to pull him between his legs. Laughing, Jesse stands up, shaking him off. “No can do, sir. You cum now, you’re no good to me. I still wanna get fucked, and you’re the only one around to do it.” 

It takes Jack a moment to collect himself, heartbeat tripled and head roiling. He considers getting himself off anyway, is confident it would only take a few flicks against his clit to have him screaming-- but that’s not fair. Jack has always been giving to a fault, and now is no exception. Sighing, he sits back up, rubbing his dripping thighs together. “Yeah, alright. You got yourself ready, or did you just want me to fuck you raw, McCree?” His voice takes on a sultry tone that he knows for a fact has made Jesse jizz his pants more than once; he’s rewarded with an instantaneous whine from the younger man, and can’t help but smile. 

“You think I’m waitin’ any longer than I gotta? Look.” He takes one of Jack’s hands in his own, guides it between his thighs and up to his own ass, pressing Jack’s fingers against the base of the buttplug seated there. Due to the position, his erection is only inches away from Jack’s face, but a blowjob isn’t nearly enough to sate him - not right now - and Jack knows it, too. He doesn’t so much as kiss the cock in his face, instead firmly gripping the plug to twist it this way and that, enjoying the sensation of Jesse’s thighs twitching in response. 

“My favorite little slut. I knew I could count on you.” One more pointed tap to the plug, and he shifts on the bed, using his hands to drag himself further back. “At attention now, soldier,” he commands, and when Jack says jump, Jesse leaps. 

After so many years of using it, it only takes Jack a few seconds to slip the harness on, pulling the leather tight around his hips and thighs. Wearing this will never fail to get him hot; the faint squeak of leather cupping his ass, the stiff protrusion of the dildo itself, the little bulge of the inner clitoris vibrator, all catapult him close to the edge without any real sexual contact at all. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t masturbated on his own while wearing it. Leaning towards Jesse, he reaches blindly for him with one hand, finding his shoulder to balance against, and lets the other wrap around the base of the dildo, his fingers immediately gratified with a sticky wetness borne of his own cunt. He strokes it for a moment, acting as though it were the real thing, evenly spreading his own slick down the shaft while he waits for Jesse to ease out his buttplug. 

“You ready?” 

In answer, Jesse simply lifts his legs, wrapping one around his waist and letting the other rest near Jack’s shoulder. It takes a minute of Jack groping, his hands feeling and probing and touching, before he can position himself properly. One hand is forced to press into the bed so as to keep balanced on the stumps of his thighs, but the other is at Jesse’s ass, two fingers eased just slightly into his anus while his thumb serves to guide the dildo into him. Fingers pull away, and the dildo replaces them in an easy switch borne from years of practice. Not for the first time, he finds himself wishing he had sensation there, that he could feel Jesse’s hole twitch and tighten around him - but then, all things told, this is just  _ fine _ . 

On his back, Jesse huffs and gives a little whine, barely enough lubrication to keep it from hurting. As is, he has to make Jack stay there for a little too long as he forces himself to accommodate the intrusion. Jack doesn’t complain. He likes hearing him, likes feeling his legs shift and twitch as he finds the perfect position. 

“Alright, sir. We’re a go.” 

Jack doesn’t question it. He pushes his hips forward slowly, one long, steady thrust, until the base of the dildo is pressed against Jesse’s round ass, forcing the vibrator seated inside the strap-on to grind against his clitoris. They both need a second there, Jesse continuing to adjust his hips and Jack grinding faintly forward, before they move again. Jack leans forward, his body pressing at Jesse’s leg until it’s against his own chest, straining the muscles in Jesse’s thighs to keep it there. He doesn’t gratify him with nice, long thrusts. They’re both too keyed up for that. Instead, his hips move in quick, rough little thrusts, pulling out barely two inches before he’s driving back in; he holds it there for three, four seconds, then pulls back again. It’s erratic and rough, but Jesse is moaning like a two dollar whore, and that’s all Jack needs to continue. 

Jesse reaches up for him, one hand grabbing at his short hair, the other managing to grasp at one ass cheek, fingers scrabbling for purchase there as he gives another short, brutal thrust. It’s a miracle there’s enough lube, but thinking back to how the toy was wet enough to drip down over his hand, maybe it wasn’t exactly surprising. Even now, juices are gathering in the crotch of Jack’s harness, almost uncomfortably wet as his clit is mercilessly pleasured on each thrust in. He jerks suddenly as the vibrator hits a new spot against him, and he is given a further reward when Jesse shouts, his dull nails scratching red stripes into his ass. 

“Yeah, fuck yeah, right there baby--” Jesse babbles helplessly, and, eager to please, Jack does his best to comply. He doesn’t have to ask what he hit. Jesse’s voice says it all. 

“You like it when I fuck your pussy, Jesse? You sound like a bitch in heat for me, sound so pretty. I bet I can make you cum just on my cock.” Unable to form rational words, Jesse responds with a series of deep, rough moans, trying to physically drag him down to his level in hope both of kisses and contact with his cock. “Ah-ah, no, baby, you don’t get anything to touch you. Come on. You gave the orders first, now it’s my turn. You wanna be a good soldier? Then cum.” 

Sweat drips from Soldier’s forehead onto Jesse’s chest and stomach; by now the room smells like nothing but sex and sweat and some underlying musk that they both recognize as pure arousal. Jesse is writhing beneath him, body jerking and twitching each time Jack’s little cock presses past his prostate. He shortens his thrusts, trying to refine his movements until he can hit it on every jerk forward. It takes a few minutes, but he knows exactly when he finds that happy medium: Jesse shouts, having to abruptly drop the leg from Jack’s shoulder to wrap both thighs around his hips. 

“What’d I say, soldier? I said to fucking  _ cum _ .” 

He can’t see when he does, but he hears that tiny spurt, the sticky-wet sound of it falling onto his own stomach. Driving the dildo balls deep again, he seats himself there, grinding against him in an attempt to maximize contact against his own pleasure spots. “Touch me,” he snaps breathlessly, getting frustrated in his prolonged chase for orgasm. Still blinking away stars, another thick bead of semen dripping down his fat glans, Jesse does as he’s told, hands reaching to squeeze at his tits before rubbing firmly against his stomach and sides, hitting erogenous zones only by the grace of god. 

“I got you, baby,” Jesse groans, ass still clenched around his cock, panting wildly as he struggles to catch his breath. “Your turn, darlin’. Cum for me, baby.” He grips the base of the strap-on, pressing firmly back against his old man’s hips. Wetness drips down around the leather harness, wetting his palm, and he groans again, his softening penis twitching once more. “Still so wet, jesus, I love it. Cum in my pussy, Jack. Fill me up.” 

It takes desperately humping him to get to the edge, hips moving in fast, animalistic movements as he mashes his clit against both vibrator and dildo. His breathing goes from mostly measured and controlled to wild groaning, eyes closing as he throws his head back, reaching up to touch his own nipple. “Shit,” he breathes, then whines and curses again. A warm intrusion presses beneath his harness, and Jack recognizes it immediately as Jesse’s fingers; they reach up, pinching his clitoris before quickly shoving into his greedy cunt. “Yeah. Yeah, fuck me, Jesse, oh god, yeah--” 

He feels him tighten, a strong clench of his hole as Jack’s whole body tenses up and freezes-- 

And then he’s tumbling down, throbbing around his hand and humping once more, riding high on the tide of his orgasm. “Jesse, fuck, I love you, I love you iloveyou....” 

When his head clears, the tingling flush slowly easing out of his extremities, he’s laid on his back, strap-on pulled out of Jesse’s ass. They’re both panting, both trying to remember their own goddamn names, when Jesse starts to laugh. 

“I guess that mission was a success, Commander?” 

“Shut the fuck up, Jess.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's probably prudent to mention a few details I consider canon for Jack after the explosion. Jack lost his sight and relies on his visor to retain any visual cues. Both legs were amputated above the knee, and he has pretty significant facial scarring + deformities from said scarring. Jack isn't insecure in any of these disabilities, because he knows he's still as desirable as ever. Jesse can't really disagree with that at all (:


	4. frottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bored on a botched Blackwatch mission, Jesse and Gabriel find themselves thinking with their dicks. Stuffed into a small room, they make the most of things, and give each other a little sexual comfort. 
> 
> Frottage between Blackwatch-era Gabe & Jesse! Pretty simple one, enjoy.

Their relationship is the worst kept secret in Blackwatch. 

 

Everyone has seen hints: all the ways McCree and the Commander look at each other, the not-so-subtle touches they sneak when they think no one is looking. Half of Blackwatch thinks that they want to fuck, and the other half is convinced they already have. Nobody says shit, though; Blackwatch is far too tight-knit for that, and nobody is about to get their Commander court-martialed or jeopardize his relationship with Jack for what they’re certain is an affair. 

 

It isn’t, of course. Where Jesse and Gabriel are overt in their advances and lust, he and Jack have the luxury of being able to keep things much quieter. They don’t spend ten hours a day together, or end up in the field with one another for days at a time. When Jesse approaches the Strike Commander, it’s in the dead of night, in the bowels of the Overwatch base, with none the wiser. 

 

But with Gabe? It’s so easy it’s criminal, too many excuses easily at hand. This is one of them. 

 

They’re three days out on a mission that should’ve taken one. Gabriel’s a simmering pot of annoyance, but the others keep reassuring themselves that he just suffers from resting bitch face - he does, but Jesse knows him well enough to tell that he’s pissed about the whole situation. 

 

Jesse also knows him well enough to know how to get him to blow off a little steam. Normally, he doesn’t tolerate any fucking around in the field, but Jesse likes to think that his involvement makes it not quite the  _ usual _ situation. With this notion in mind, he decides to test his luck. 

 

It takes a minute to find him, holed up in a side room with a glare fierce enough to melt steel. Checking over his shoulder, Jesse slips in beside him and offers an easy smile. 

 

“You ain’t real happy about this, are ya, jefe?” Jesse asks, reaching up to squeeze Gabriel’s shoulder. He feels the other start to try and shrug him off, before deciding otherwise; a deep-seated tension is still visible in the jut of his jaw and the tightness of his broad shoulders. He reaches up to click off his comms, and then drops his voice low, each word dripping venom. 

 

“Why the fuck would I be? Intel said there was a transportation delay, and that means we’re stuck out here until this fucker decides to show up, and Jess, I swear to all of my orisha, someone’s getting fucking fired after this.” 

 

Jesse seems to consider this for a second, an almost exaggerated expression overtaking him, before he nods. “Hmm. I hear ya. That mean you got a couple minutes?” Even as he’s speaking, he’s sliding his hand from Gabriel’s shoulder to the small of his back, fingers running over the waistband of his pants. He can almost see the gears turning as Gabriel runs the logistics, before he sighs, running a hand over his face. A furtive glance or two over his shoulder, and he’s nodding. 

 

“God knows I need some stress relief. Yeah. Yeah, okay. A couple minutes.” 

 

That’s all it takes. Jesse barely waits long enough for him to close the door before he’s on him, gloved hands grabbing at the back of Gabe’s tactical shirt to grope at the muscle there. Gabriel is the one to close the gap, shoving him until Jesse is trapped against the rough brick wall behind him. 

 

“Jesus,” Jesse breathes, hands on Gabriel’s face to stroke at his jaw. “Talk about bein’ caught between a rock and a-” 

 

Gabriel must not want to hear the ending of his well thought out pun, because he cuts him off with a kiss, muffling his voice. Hands brace at his biceps, forcing him harder against the wall, and Jesse bites at Gabriel’s lip in retaliation, hands tracing down the musculature of his back, pinching and rubbing everything he can reach. 

 

“A hard place,” he stubbornly finishes between kisses, a self-satisfied grin on his face. It’s just enough to crack a smile from Gabe, then a quiet laugh as he shakes his head. 

 

“Shut up, McCree.” 

 

“‘S the matter, boss, y’don’t like my-” This time it’s a hand that muffles him, hips pressing harshly against his. As stubborn as Jesse is, he’s not going to argue against something like that; in a second he’s arching his back to press closer, is rewarded with a position that allows him to feel his erection growing against Gabe’s. 

 

“No, I mean shut up as in someone’s going to hear us, asshole. You wanna get caught?” He’s whispering now, but Jesse sees the hint of a smile at the corners of his lips. After a moment, he lets his hand drop from his mouth to his body: it travels down the length of his torso, pinching at a nipple as he passes, then down to squeeze at one chubby hip, before it slides behind to grope at his ass. Jesse’s arms tighten around his waist as he eagerly grinds their hips together, and he turns his head to kiss him, letting his jaw go slack so Gabriel can slide his tongue into his mouth. 

 

It’s easy to get caught up in it, dazed with intimacy and pleasure, their uniforms increasingly stifling and confining, a surplus of heat between them and a dire deficit of friction. When Gabriel finally pulls back, it’s only to rectify the problem, his hands dropping to Jesse’s belt. A trail of searing and filthy kisses finds its way down his neck and across the stubble of his jaw while he unbuckles his belt. An overeager Jesse mirrors the motion, fumbling as he yanks Gabe’s belt off, letting it hang past his hip as he hurries to pull his cock out. 

 

The desperation and need breeds a surge of sudden affection in jesse, and he can’t help but laugh, making a token effort to stifle it against Gabe’s shoulder. Gabe’s laughing, too, lips trembling from it as he presses a brief kiss against his mouth, almost laughably chaste considering he has wrapped his hand around both of their cocks. 

 

They indulge in that for a moment, giggling like teenagers, before Gabe gives his order. “Spit,” he says, and Jesse obeys, despite the fact that his mouth suddenly feels dry as the desert. “You always look so fucking good, Jess,” he whispers, leaning in to bury his face in the crook of his neck. His hand moves in quick, short strokes, twisting his wrist in an effort to spread a mixture of spit and precome down both shafts. All Jesse can manage in response is a groan, his hips rocking and jerking up against his hand, and Gabriel smiles, lightly squeezing the base of his cock. “Gotta be more quiet than that,” he warns, before pulling his hand away, wiping it against Jesse’s pants. 

 

They tumble into a tangled embrace, arms wrapped tight, hands questing and probing for any bit of flesh they can find, and their hips never, never stop moving. It’s rough and dirty, not that idyllic slide of shaft against shaft; more often than not, they’re rutting against each others hips and pants, their cocks rubbing against bellies in the brief sensation of cock-on-cock. 

 

No matter how many warnings Gabe gives him, it’s not enough to quell or quiet Jesse’s groans - after a minute, Gabriel gives up, deciding to enjoy his strained, hoarse groans as his thrusting hips guide their cocks together once more. Once he realizes no more warnings are forthcoming, he’s shameless, moaning just loudly enough to put them both on edge, alert to being caught. It’s working Gabriel up, not just because he can feel it in the sharp teeth at his neck, but from knowing him more intimately than anyone else. Everyone thinks he’s unreadable, but not Jesse. He knows him, he loves him, adores him, knows every sign that means Gabriel is coming undone. 

 

It doesn’t last long, both of them as keyed up as they are, overwhelmed by the heat between them and the desperate desire for close proximity that the last few days had been breeding. It’s been three days in coming when it finally happens. It’s quick and dirty, but that doesn’t matter. Jesse drags his tongue over Gabriel’s neck, tasting the salty sweat on his skin, and he bites down hard enough to make him hiss out a vague curse. 

 

He must know Jesse is close - or maybe he’s close, too - because he’s whispering to him again, voice terse and ragged around the edges. ‘I got you, boy, I got you,’ he whispers against his ear, lips grazing the lobe before he dips a tongue out to lick at it, and fuck, if that’s not the prettiest thing Jesse’s ever heard. He moans helplessly against him, thrusting his hips; Gabriel bites at his ear, sighs against his skin, and that’s enough, he’s gone, hips bucking as he spills between them. He hurriedly wraps a hand around both of their cocks, jerking himself through the high and vaguely hoping Gabriel gets off with him. 

 

He’s dizzy and can barely breathe when Gabe comes, teeth clamping down hard on Jesse’s shoulder to muffle the loud grunts he can never seem to control, snorting and growling deep in his throat. He stays there for a minute, breathing slowly evening out, before he turns his face to press a few slow, lazy kisses to Jesse’s scruffy neck. 

 

“Boss- Gabriel- hey,” Jesse starts, still a little dazed, a little out of breath. 

 

“Hey,” Gabe agrees, kissing the high arch of his cheekbone. 

 

“I love you. We’ll be home soon - better tedious than dangerous.” 

 

Gabriel ponders that for a minute, and he must agree, because then he’s kissing Jesse hard again, nose pressed to his and hands trailing down his arms until they find Jesse’s fingers, twining them together. “Yeah. Love you, Jess. Love you.” 

 

Pleased with himself - and their little escapade - Jesse beams. He doesn’t let himself wallow in it for long, reaching down to tuck himself back into his pants before pushing away Gabe’s hands so he can do the same for him. “C’mon, we gotta get back, before people start talkin’.” 

 

Gabriel snorts derisively, adjusting his clothes. “Like they’re not talking already.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are coming out pretty slowly because i tend to take my time in editing them - lots going in my classes this semester, so i don't have a lot of free time. i've got a few more chapters waiting to be edited and posted. this challenge won't end up completed by the end of the month, but i'll get around to the whole thing eventually, don't you worry (-:


	5. Cannibalism & Humiliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR CONTENT WARNING!!  
> This chapter is mostly non-sexual and deals with auto-cannibalism. Specifically, Reaper feeds Jack a piece of Jack's own body as a domination technique. It is semi-explicit. Please, please don't read this chapter if it would be at all triggering to you. 
> 
> In a not-so-chance meeting, the Reaper notices that Soldier: 76 is suffering an infection. He handles it in what seems a natural way to him: devour what devours you.

They’ve only seen one another a few times since Gabriel died. It’s too painful for both of them, too much bitterness and resentment bound up in their guts to handle any prolonged contact. This...  _ Reaper _ is an enigma even to Jack, who once knew Gabriel better than he knew himself. But the Reaper? It’s hard to guess what he’ll do when they meet. He never knows if he is going to mock him, attack him, fuck him -- it’s most often some perverse combination of the three. In honesty, Jack is tired. It’s exhausting having his husband so close, right there in front of him, yet so far gone that he’s not sure if there’s anything  _ left _ of Gabriel at all. 

 

His exhaustion doesn’t stop the Reaper from stalking him. 

 

“I know you’re there. Smells like a crypt anywhere you go.” Weariness is apparent in his voice, if not his body language. 

 

Heavy boots click behind him, and a moment later Reaper’s gauntlet settles on his shoulder, squeezing too hard. 

 

“Not happy to see me, Jack?” 

 

“You make it difficult to be.” He flexes his fingers, stilling the fine tremors there as he undoes the blood-scabbed wrappings from around his knuckles. An echo of that faint violence is painted across his ribs as a mosaic of bruises and thick, itchy scabs. Souvenirs from his last fight - and the fight before that. He needs to make another trip to Ana to obtain more biotics, but with the Reaper right here, that won’t help him now. “I don’t want to fight.” 

 

“That’s a new one.” Jack can hear the sneer in Reaper’s voice, and it makes his lip curl in annoyance, trying to shrug his hand off. It only tightens. “What  _ do _ you want, Jack?” 

 

“Didn’t like the answer I gave last time? Well, it’s the same.” Jack snaps, turning to face him and ignoring the twinge the movement produces in his most recent wounds. His visor locks onto the Reaper’s form, the optics there interpreting a pale, ethereal form, as he sees everything now. “I want my goddamn husband. I want you to make up your mind about me - do you want me dead, or want me to be yours? All you do is play games. All you’ve ever fucking done, Gabriel.” 

 

There’s a pause, and then Reaper asks, “What’s wrong with you?” 

 

Jack hadn’t wanted to fight, but if he has to, he will. What had previously been a thin vein of annoyance flashes bright red in his mind now, making his ruined jaw clench, his hackles raised. He opens his mouth to answer, and Reaper cuts him off. 

 

“You think  _ I  _  smell like a crypt? I can smell death all over you, Jack. You’re rotting. I can practically taste it. Let me see.” 

 

It takes Jack off guard, and he blinks uselessly, tensing as Reaper tries to grab at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

 

Claws tighten around his biceps, and he forces him closer, making him turn to fully face him. “I can smell the sickness on you,” he muses, voice a low purr of something approaching curiosity. “Let me see the infection.” 

 

Jack can feel his stomach twist. How had he known? Just how far did the Reaper’s new gifts take him? He swallows hard, shakes his head; his voice isn’t as stern as he wants when he says, “Leave me the fuck alone, Reaper.” 

 

“Is that what you really want?” His voice is lighter now, amused - taunting. Like he’s the only one in on some big cosmic joke. He’s always done this, and it gives Jack some measure of familiarity, as if Gabriel is still there, under mask and robes and nanites. “I know how to fix it. Didn’t you say you want your husband back? Don’t you want me to take care of you like one?” 

 

Jack isn’t an idiot. This is manipulation, pure and simple, the beginnings of some trap formed so Gabriel can get what he wants. But, at this point, there’s not much left that the Reaper can do to him that he hasn’t already done, and he knows he’s too stubborn to let him leave without getting what he wants. He tells himself it’s not submission when he shrugs off his jacket. This is the only outcome. He’s just easing the way. 

 

The infection in question is burrowed deep into a bullet wound in his shoulder. SEP had gifted him with advanced healing, but without biotics to ease it along, he’d had to stitch it up himself. It shows in the haphazard alignment of thread, which are dark against the angry red of the skin, the surrounding area inflamed and warm, a tint of disconcerting yellow eating at the edges of the puckered wound. Reaper fixes the gaze of his mask on it, clicking his tongue as he strokes his thumb over one of the yellow patches of sour skin. His touch is light, almost tender, but it’s enough to prompt Jack to hiss through his teeth anyway. 

 

“You want me to take care of it, Jack?” 

 

“You even gonna give me a choice?” 

 

Reaper laughs, and Jack can’t find any mirth in it. His thumb presses harder against him, and then he’s pushing the tip of his claw down onto it, puncturing the skin with a subdued sound of affirmation. Through force of will - and clamping his teeth down onto his tongue - Jack manages not to shout, instead giving a pathetic grunt as his hand snaps up to circle around Reaper’s wrist. It doesn’t budge. “Trust me, Jack. Take off your visor.” 

 

“Like hell I’m going to tr-” 

 

“Take it off,” he says, louder. “Or I’ll rip it off.” Always did like to repeat himself to win an argument. A brief pause, and then his voice comes more softly. “Trust me.” 

 

He sounds like  _ Gabriel _ when he says it like that. 

 

There’s a long minute of tension-ridden impasse, before Jack lets him go and complies, taking off his visor and holding it uselessly in his hands. He tells himself it’s because the Reaper doesn’t make idle threats, and not because he so desperately wants to trust him. Reaper continues to pierce him with those hateful claws, working quickly if not delicately as he carves out pieces of skin and flesh. There’s a rush of warmth to his head, almost overwhelming him, and he staggers, forced to put an arm against Gabriel to steady himself. When it fades, it manifests as the too-hot drip of blood streaking down his arms. His world is consumed with that, the air thick with the scent of blood and rot, and he nearly gags, choking down bile. 

 

“Open your mouth.” Reaper gives the order, still sounding for all the world like Gabriel Reyes. Jack wonders if he’s doing it on purpose. 

 

“Fuck you.” 

 

“Jack.” It’s almost a sigh, and Jack isn’t sure what direction it comes from. He’s suddenly disoriented, the solidity of the Reaper in question as the tell-tale presence seems to fade. For a moment he thinks he is gone entirely, until he feels metal fingertips against his mouth, wet with something he’d rather not think of. He opens his mouth to speak, idly wondering just what the hell Reaper did with the flesh - meat - he has carved from his shoulder, but the answer is quickly provided in the form of something warm being brought to his mouth. It’s warm, wet, reeking of copper and iron and something more organic, and he automatically closes his mouth against its intrusion. He moves to shove him back, but his hands collide with open air, moving through smoke and mirrors. Any solidity is gone. 

 

“What the fuck,” Jack hisses, stepping back. He must be losing his fucking mind - or the Reaper is. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

 

“Eat it, Jack.” Reaper’s voice hums like a rising swarm, a buzz of insects that envelops him in an almost claustrophobically thick cloud. It swirls around him, coming first from the left, then the right, seeming to echo through his skull in a low, throbbing insistence. Like God speaking to his children. “Devour what devours you. It’ll consume you, if you let it. Don’t give it the chance. Are you going to let a clump of errant cells make you  _ weak _ like this?” 

 

He’s playing a game - he has to be - and Jack wishes he’d get to the point, say what he’s trying to say. It’s not just the pain making him dizzy anymore; it’s the feeling of smoke all around him, a fog so thick it’s tangible; it’s not just blood he smells, but damp earth, stale air; the voice murmuring orders is sweet and insistent, swirling around him in circles, a buzzing reverberation that can’t be ignored. 

 

He opens his mouth. 

 

It’s soft on his tongue, and tastes overwhelmingly of copper. Like sucking on old coins. Like iron. Like the fucking tap water in his shitty Indiana hometown. Blood coats his tongue until he’s certain he’ll never be able to taste anything but this for the rest of his life. His instinct is to chew, and he doesn’t have the presence of mind to stop himself from grinding his teeth down onto his own soured flesh. Not tender, it doesn’t rend easily, but instead flattens between his teeth, reminding him suddenly that this is raw flesh. He gags, and before his lunch can come up he forces himself to swallow the thick cut of meat. 

 

He’s still trying to keep it down when the Reaper moves forward and provides a welcome distraction in the form of a firm, commandeering kiss. His mouth fills with saliva in preparation to retch, and his stomach goes into a series of spasms as the Reaper slides his tongue between his lips, disturbingly reminiscent of the meat he had just swallowed. His tongue slides across each cranny of his mouth, taking in every drop of blood he can find. 

 

Jack feels through the air, insistently traversing through smoke so thick it feels viscous, like some cosmic oilspill, until it finally solidifies into something like a human form. His hands move from his elbows up to his shoulders, then further, to his neck, and face. Fingertips feel the ridge of some wet and gory mess, and he again finds himself gagging into the kiss. It only makes Reaper kiss him harder, seeming reinvigorated by his revulsion; he sucks at his tongue while Jack forces himself to continue exploring his scarred cheekbones, the exposed bone of his jaw. It almost feels familiar, and it’s enough to get Jack’s heart pounding just the same as it always did. 

 

He wants him. That much never changed, wounds or not. 

 

He breathes in through his nose, and he can feel smoke in the air enter his lungs; he knows it’s Gabriel crawling his way inside him, and he doesn’t care. Welcomes it. Breathes deeper, inviting him to coil up in his organs in the most intimate penetration he’s ever known. Gabriel may as well have his name written across every cell in his body. It’s all his, and always will be, no matter what feeble excuses Jack might give. 

 

The Reaper’s claws dig into his waist, ripping tiny holes into Jack’s shirt in his endeavor to pull him closer, not stopping until Jack collides with the wall of muscle that is the Reaper’s chest. Solid again, he thinks vaguely. He’s not sure when it happened, and he doesn’t care. All he cares about is keeping this feeling, this penetration and occupation, this sinful takeover of body and soul. 

 

Reaper takes it away. 

 

He pulls back, and by the time Jack grabs at him a second later, the mask is back, cold and smooth. It’s a signifier of the end, and Jack wants to punch him; he wants to snap that mask in half. 

 

“Check your shoulder,” Reaper says, and the soft tenderness is replaced by a self-assured smugness. 

 

He almost refuses, but he’s a soldier, and soldiers take orders. When Jack touches his shoulder, there’s a smear of blood, but beneath that, the skin is smooth. Intact. Healthy. He imagines that the Reaper is grinning behind his mask, baring all of his teeth. 

 

“Whatever the fuck you just did to me,” Jack says, then reconsiders, standing straight and setting his jaw, “If you ever do that again, I will fucking kill you.” 

 

Don’t do it again, Gabriel Reyes, unless you’re planning on staying right there in my gut. Don’t you ever leave again. 


	6. Amputation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR CONTENT WARNING!!  
> Like the previous chapter, this deals with gory and sometimes upsetting themes. This time, it's sexual arousal surrounding amputation. It's pretty explicit in describing the cutting of flesh and such, so, uh... if that's not your jam, I'd skip this one. The next chapter will bring us back to the regular brand of pornography, fret not... 
> 
> Gabriel loses himself in a reverie about how Jack lost his limbs. As always, Gabriel takes it too far, and turns it into a bonding experience.

“Let me do it.”

 

Jack feels clawed hands pushing his own away from where they’re fiddling with the clasps and buckles of his prosthetic legs; he doesn’t argue, and instead lets the Reaper lift his legs onto the bed, leisurely stretching them out. He looks comfortable there, leaned back on his elbows, thick metal calves rested on blankets as he waits for their removal.

 

Reaper isn’t an expert at taking them on and off, not like Jack and Jesse are by now, but he figures it out easily enough after a minute of probing and exploring of the various switches and clasps. He lifts one leg into his lap, leaning over it to begin the process of taking it off, a soothing little exercise in patience.

 

“Hey.” Jack shoves at his shoulder a little, and the Reaper feels his lip curl into a half-smile that Jack can’t see. He hums his acknowledgement while he disengages another lock, prompting him to continue. “You looking to fool around a little, big guy?” Leaning forward, he feels for Reaper’s face and then presses a kiss to the Reaper’s cheek, scarred lips brushing over his jaw, barely flinching when he hits missing patches of skin and muscle.

 

“Just a little?” Reaper teases, and then turns his head to catch his mouth with his own in a brief kiss before pulling back to set one of Jack’s prosthetics on the floor, successfully removed. “I’m gonna take the liner off, too.”

 

“That’s fine,” Jack says, and seems utterly disinterested; he’s much more invested in kissing him again. Without his visor on he can’t watch him, but that eager, hungry expression is still painted plainly across his face. It only intensifies as Gabriel carefully rolls the liner off of Jack’s stump and immediately takes advantage of the exposed skin, touching and stroking every inch of it. Jack winds an arm around his shoulders and tangles his fingers into Reaper’s long, thick hair, and yanks on it a little when he feels clawed fingers tease along the inside of his thigh, trailing up to the hem of his boxers. “You better take the other one off, or we’ll be here all night,” he huffs, shifting his weight to lift up his other leg for his attention.

 

Turning, Reaper gives him a firm kiss, catching the scarred remnants of his lower lip between his teeth in retaliation. Another, sweeter kiss follows it up before he acquiesces and pulls away to finish taking off his other leg. Jack lets his eyes close, leaning in to rest his forehead against Gabriel’s shoulder, fingers twisting idly into his curly hair.

 

“You’re not making it easy to focus.” The words come out with a decided lack of conviction, and Jack huffs a laugh, giving a teasing, wet kiss to his collarbone, tongue laving over the skin for a scant second.

 

“When have I ever?”

 

The Reaper stubbornly pretends to ignore Jack’s insistent ministrations while he finishes removing the prosthetic. When it finally comes free, a now-lifeless hunk of titanium, Reaper tucks it carefully beneath the bed and then pushes at Jack’s chest to guide him to lay back on the bed, then settles himself between his thighs.

 

“Joke’s on you,” he says, punctuating each word with a kiss to his chest, a slow and winding path up his pectoral to his scarred shoulder. As he works, his fingers trail down the length of his stumps, claws only barely catching at the thick scar tissue there. “I’m still gonna take my time down here anyway.”

 

“That’s fine, as long as I’ve still got you between my legs.” Jack tugs on his hair again, just because he can, thumb caressing his scalp.

 

“And you say I’m a sleaze.”

 

“I learned from the best.” The Reaper digs his claws into his thigh for that one, leaving tiny little pressure indentations but taking care not to pierce the skin. He’s laughing, though, shaking his head as he kisses Jack’s mouth, not shying away from his permanently exposed teeth. Exploratory fingers start at the curved end of Jack’s stump, and begin a slow, meandering path over the gentle slope of flesh, rubbing circles over the thigh scar tissue where his wounds healed over. He traces the very tips of his claws up his thigh, teasing beneath the edge of his boxers before running them back down and transferring the pressure to the pads of his fingers to give a gentle sort of massage.

 

His eyes, dark embers in the gaunt skin of his face, are locked on the scarred remnants of Jack’s legs, running down the length of them as though they were some delectable feast rather than a disfigurement. Thoughts and images pop into existence unbidden, but Gabriel doesn’t give even a token effort to push them back. Why bother, when he can embrace them?

 

He wonders what it was like, when Jack lost the limbs. He wishes he’d been there; he’d been there when Jesse lost his arm. It was miserable, of course, and positively terrifying for the both of them. But after all was said and done, and Jesse was recovering safely in the infirmary..? There’s something that changed between them, something subtle and necessary. He remembers how strong Jesse had been surrounding the whole incident - he’d had this terrible, wrathful anger, rioting against the loss of his body, which had slowly and gradually faded to a sunny optimism, insistent that the amputation wouldn’t define or change him. Gabriel had to disagree: something had changed for the better in him, and it was visible for the rest of his life. But Gabriel hadn’t been able to get over his pride and satisfaction in how Jesse had handled everything, and that had led to more than one instance of needy, desperate sex right there in his hospital bed.

 

With Jack, though? He knows so little, so few details. It’d been Ana, he’d said, that helped him out and made sure the infection didn’t set in. He doesn’t know if she’d been the one to do the deed itself, though, that terribly final severing of flesh, or if Jack had done that to himself. Laying there on top of Jack, stroking the edges of his stumps, Reaper can’t help but imagine what it would have been like if he had been there instead. He wishes he had been.

 

He thinks about Jack slumped against the dirty brick wall of a remote alleyway, legs a mangled mess of meat and bone in blood in front of him. Did it happen after the explosion? Reaper guesses it must have, tells himself that if it were some Talon no-name he’d rip out his throat and present Jack with his viscera. If it were the explosion, though, if he’d been the one there to help... He’d have knelt beside him and promised him it was going to be alright.

 

Reaper exhales and feels a chill crawl down his spine. He squeezes his thigh, and watches the dent his claws make in his pale skin. He’d have been the one to perform the amputation, would have bullheadedly insisted on being the one to do the deed and rid him of limbs so ruined that they’d never have a hope of healing. A shock of desire, thick and twisted, settles deep into his gut at the intimacy inherent in such an act: divesting Jack of something seemingly so integral to his existence, and being implicitly trusted to do so.

 

He is hard by the time his daydream moves on to the cutting of skin, imagining the difficulty of sawing through tough muscle strengthened by years of exercise and chemicals. Groaning under his breath, he turns his hips to slot them against Jack’s and press his hard-on against his thigh, knowing full well that Jack can feel the heat of him through his boxers.

 

“Hey, you there?” Jack asks, and the Reaper snaps back to reality, feeling guilty and embarrassed. He shouldn’t be thinking about things like this, he admonishes himself, but he knows he doesn’t have the resolve to try and fight them off.

 

“Yeah,” he says, mouth dry, covering up the wavering of his voice by grinding his hips down against his stump. “Can I?” He’s almost sheepish, biting the inside of his cheek as if in anticipation of being told ‘no.’

 

“You’re so strange. Go for it, baby.”

 

As if to make up for the perverse thoughts plaguing his intentions, he kisses Jack, a soft, romantic press of lips to lips. He reaches down as he does, pulling his cock out of his boxers and tucking the waistband beneath his balls. It takes a moment to hike up Jack’s boxers, but as soon as he’s able, he’s sliding his cock against the divot between his thigh and hip, balls brushing against the muscle of his inner thigh. Burying his face in Jack’s neck, he squeezes and shifts Jack’s thigh, pulling it up a little to tighten that crease around his erection, a pseudo-hole just for him.

 

Biting back a groan, he lets his mind wander; he can’t stop thinking about it now that the image is in his head. Jack breathing hard, blood on his lips, his teeth, dripping down his chest, nothing but blood from the knees down. He thinks about being the one to slice through the last part of skin, that last remnant of healthy flesh - thinks about Jack _encouraging_ him, ‘come on, Gabe, just- just cut it off, take it off-...’ In his mind’s eye he drags the severed and lifeless limb away from the newly formed stump, the leg heavy even though it’s been reduced to little more than pulp by high-velocity shrapnel and impossibly heavy stone. He stares at the six inch gap between body and limb, knows that looking at it ten minutes prior would have seen it in perfect working order. Now it will never move again, those all-important nerves and arteries severed and rendered useless.

 

It’s something Gabriel should have been able to experience. An intimacy he should have been able to share with him. It makes him feel cheated, like something was taken from him, and he’s hungry for something to replace it.

 

His cock throbs in the space where he’s fucking against Jack’s thigh, nothing more than short little thrusts against warm skin. He’d have bandaged those ragged stumps for him, even with a confused hard-on in his pants, the notion of some sick inversion of playing doctor taking over his fantasy. He’d change the wrappings every time Jack bled through them, would have poked his fingers into those open wounds to make sure they were clear of shrapnel, and fuck, if shoving his fingers into that isn’t like shoving them into his cunt...

 

He knows Jack would barely flinch, maybe wouldn’t even cry, just clench his teeth and dig his nails into his palm and fucking take it, let Gabriel take care of him and nurse him back to health in whatever way he saw best. He always was good at taking pain. The Reaper has seen Jack take bullets and give no sound louder than a breath hissed in through clenched teeth. Cutting his legs off and hearing him give little more than a whimper would just prove to him, more than anything, how strong his Jackie could really be.

 

Jack bites at his throat, blurring the lines of fantasy and reality, and Gabriel comes abruptly, spitting a curse as he spills across his hip and leg. His head is spinning, and he gives a faint grunt, giving Jack a searing kiss as a means to ground himself.

 

“You good?” Jack asks, the hint of a smile on his face showing him that, truly, he has not a clue what has been playing through Gabriel’s mind. His hands are tender and loving as they trail across the Reaper’s shoulders, caressing and stroking until they wind a wayward curl around his fingers.

 

Reaper presses his ruined lips to Jack’s forehead, lingering there for a minute as he tries to pretend his fantasy was a lot less fucked up than it was.

 

“Better than good. C’mon. You want a turn or not, old man?”


	7. Asphyxiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse experiments with power dynamics in the way he knows best: physical punishment. 
> 
> Also features scent/stink kink, and boot worship. Mild bloodplay, nothing significant, and plenty of dirty talk.

“Get down on your knees.” 

An order, not a request, but he’s met with defiance, not submission. He wouldn’t expect anything less; submission doesn’t suit either of them. They’re fighters through and through. 

So he’ll fight for his dominance. 

Quick as a snake, he reaches down, grabs his balls through his shorts and squeezes, tugging the soft flesh away from his body in a cold vice grip. “On your knees.” 

There’s a wince, and a moment where he can tell that he’s deciding whether it’s worth it to fight this, if the pain would be worth the gain. Apparently, it isn’t, because a second later he does as he’s told, grunting as he falls heavily to his knees. 

Gabriel looks up at Jesse with an expression challenging him, even as he positions himself lower - as if he has any power here, on his knees. It’s so very Gabriel that it makes Jesse smile, that easy, sweet-as-honey curl of lips, and he reaches down to touch Gabriel’s shorn hair, tugging it between his knuckles. “Atta boy.” 

A hot glob of spit hits him in the cheek, dripping down to his jaw; Gabriel looks pleased with himself, a fire glinting in his eyes, but he doesn’t open his mouth to verbalize the obvious challenge: what are you gonna do about it? 

Jesse takes his time, leisurely wiping the spit off his face and looking down at him not with anger, but condescension, knowing just how much it will infuriate Reyes. He leans in and grabs him by the chin, thrusting his thumb into his mouth and using the leverage to pin Gabe’s warm tongue down. 

“Like a rabid fuckin’ dog, ain’t ya? You need a bit, darlin’. They use ‘em for horses, mostly, gives ‘em something to chew on, gives ‘em the guidance they need, stops ‘em from doin’ shit like that.” He punctuates with a gentle tug on his tongue, then runs his thumb over the sharp edges of his teeth, daring Gabriel to bite down. 

He doesn’t. 

Instead, he spits out his thumb, a thin line of saliva still connecting it to his lips. “But then you’d miss the best part of me: my mouth.” 

Jesse laughs at that, rubs his wet thumb against his harsh cheekbones to return the favor. “Ain’t that the truth. You don’t want a bit? It’d cut into your cheeks just a little, just the right amount, so you wouldn’t be sure if the taste of metal was the bit or the blood it’s spilling. I bet you’d love that.” He considers for a moment, can’t deny himself that the image of him, bent over and drooling blood, mouth held open, and it makes his cock chub up in his jeans. “Well, if you don’t want it, then you gotta make that mouth worth my time, then, sweetheart. Best start puttin’ it to use.” 

Gabriel is careful not to seem too eager, even though those words set an unholy fire in his belly, embers stoking a little bit higher with each word. He stares him down for a moment, unblinking, nostrils flaring in mock anger. Jesse doesn’t back down, just gives that easy smile and stares him right in the eyes, almost losing himself in the anger and indignation in Gabriel’s tawny eyes. Sensing he won’t win this particular fight, Gabe huffs, shuffling his knees backwards until he can drop down onto hands and knees, lowering himself until his chest nearly touches the ground. 

Truth be told, Jesse wasn’t sure what to expect - he’d meant a blowjob, but Gabriel tended to take things into his own hands, and knock every one of his assumptions into the dust. An eyebrow quirks as he watches Gabriel move, curious as to where this is leading, up until the moment Gabriel sticks out his tongue and makes contact with the old, faded leather embroidery of Jesse’s boots. 

Jesse takes a moment, closing his eyes and letting out a slow breath as he absorbs it all. Having his boss on his knees and taking orders is one thing - having him lick his fucking boots clean is a realm that he hadn’t even allowed himself to fantasize about, having thought that Gabriel would never deign to lower himself so far. But when he opens his eyes again, that pink tongue is still out, still laving over the toe of his left boot. 

He whistles, low and impressed, as he reaches for the cigar case in his back pocket and lights one up. Gabriel’s eyes cut up to glance at him, then return back to his feet, uninterested. “No smoking in here, McCree.” 

Jesse bites on the end of the cigar, grinning around it as smoke begins to curl up and out from between his teeth. “You ain’t in much of a position to be giving orders there, jefe.” The thought must appeal to him, because he continues on, moving his boot so he can pay attention to the sides. “Mmm, what do you think Morrison would think of seeing you like this? Pathetic, sweetheart. You roll over like a dog. Can’t believe anybody listens to orders from you.” 

He must have hit a nerve, because Gabriel lifts himself back up onto his hands, leaning his weight back on his haunches. The set of his mouth and eyebrows tells him there’s anger there, flaring hot and vicious, but the saliva coating his lips and beard tell a different story. “Fuck you, McCree. You don’t have anything that a dozen other people on this base can’t do, too, but better.” 

There was probably more to that little spiel, but Jesse cuts him off; his spit-slicked boot raises up, landing a heavy kick right in the teeth. It catches Gabriel off-guard, and he takes the full force of it, knocking him onto his side and forcing the air from his lungs. He blinks, tasting blood as he looks incredulously up at his inferior. He’s about to sit up, thick arms moving to hoist his weight up, when Jesse kicks him again, this time planting the bottom of his boot in the middle of Gabriel’s chest to shove him prone. It’s easy to pin him here, nothing more than a bug beneath his feet; he leans his weight forward onto Gabe’s chest, making the older man wheeze and grab ineffectually at his leg. 

“Mmm, I’m sorry, darlin’, what was that? Little bitches don’t get to talk back without punishment. And lemme tell ya, I’m not too impressed with what you did with your mouth. Didn’t even touch the spurs - you scared of ‘em? The Big Bad Reyes, scared of a little hunk of steel.” He holds his cigar in his prosthetic hand, idly flicking the ashes down; tiny burning fires seep into Gabriel’s shirt, giving momentary twinges of pain as they scar his skin. “Gonna have to do a lot better than this for me to keep you around. I bet Morrison would know just what to do with those spurs....” 

For a moment he stares up at Jesse, up from that heavy boot and those long, pretty legs to glare up at that smug fucking cowboy. Jealousy and a desire to prove himself capable prompts him back into action, deciding that the best retort isn’t verbal but actionable. He turns his head aside to face the boot planted beside his head, the one he hadn’t lavished any attention on yet. Jesse doesn’t lift the pressure from his chest, instead forcing him to squirm on the floor to get where he wants to be. His cock chubs up at the display, but he doesn’t show any approval. Not yet. 

Gabriel starts at the heel, this time. The black, dirty rubber of his heel gets cleaned spotlessly with his tongue, spitting out globs of dirt-specked spit every few seconds until there’s a disgusting pool of saliva on the floor beneath him. Jesse doesn’t make it easy for him, forcing him to continually move to reach every centimeter of it. He is glad for the hit of nicotine in his veins and the cigar in his mouth keeping him from moaning. Gabriel doesn’t deserve that sound yet. Hasn’t been good enough to deserve it. 

When he reaches the stud of steel anchoring the spurs to his boot, Gabriel flicks his eyes back up to him, making damn sure he is watching this little show. Jesse is watching, to be sure, but there’s a careful disinterest from within that cloud of smoke. He’ll make it worthwhile. He always does. The taste of metal makes his lip curl, but he doesn’t pull away for a second, instead shoving his tongue into the tiny steel loop, the pink tip showing through the other side. Jesse feels precum well up from his balls, smearing against his boxers at the sight of it. But, stubborn as he is, Gabriel doesn’t stop there: his tongue prods against the stiff spikes of the spur itself, dragging it along the radius before he envelops the whole damn thing in his mouth. 

This time, Jesse can’t stop the groan, as hard as he tries to suffocate it in his chest. “Now you’re getting eager to please, ain’t ya, honey? Better get used to that feeling, or else you’ll learn what punishment really is.” Gabriel meets his eyes with a look of defiance, hollowing his cheeks as he sucks on it. He can all but see the outline of metal from within his cheek, and when he realizes that, he can’t help himself. He twists his boot a little and angles his heel so he can tug it towards himself; he’s rewarded with the spokes of the spur poking against Gabriel’s cheek, dragging it outward. It’s gentle, for a moment, just a desire to see them, but then he’s possessed with a need for more, and he jerks his boot again, forcing Gabriel’s head to move with it or else be sliced through. “Still better’n you deserve...,” Jesse intones, flicking his heel to run the spur along the length of his cheek. Gabriel winces, feeling it drag through the sensitive flesh of his tongue and cheek, but he doesn’t move away. 

“But sometimes you’re a good boy,” Jesse admits, pulling out of his mouth. His spurs are tinged with a telltale bloody pink, and Gabriel’s mouth is a pulpy mess, his lip split wide open and bright, thick blood gushing from the tiny holes in his tongue and cheeks. Gabriel’s panting, but there’s an undeniable look of pride on his face, crow’s feet near his eyes and the barest hint of a smile curling his lips. You did that to me, it says, and I let it happen. 

“Good boy,” he repeats, voice low and smooth and sweet as honey-liquor. Smoke puffs out of his mouth, and his hands reach down to grasp his belt, pulling at the well-worn leather. “Actin’ real good for me, now, huh?” The buckle is eased open, hanging loose by the bulge of his crotch. “All you needed was a little punishment, right, boss?” It slides out of the loops, and he wraps the end several times around his fist, holding the molded metal buckle almost reverently. “Now you’ll get your reward.” 

He steps back, until his spurs are digging into the outside of Gabe’s thighs, before he crouches down and settles over his hips; there’s a telltale bulge under his ass, concrete proof that if Jesse had hurt him, Gabriel had liked it, but Jesse ignores it for now - he hadn’t been quite good enough to get his cock touched, no sir. When he leans in, ashes scatter over Gabe’s collarbone, but his only acknowledgement is a minute twitch of his jaw. Every ounce of concentration in his body is focused on Jesse, and Jesse’s hands, and Jesse’s belt. 

It’s not a surprise when he yanks Gabe’s hair with his free hand, forcing his head up so he can slide the leather belt beneath it, but it still makes Gabriel’s pulse double, his breath coming harder and harsher. There’s no shame at all when he bares his neck for him, making it that much easier to slide the end of the belt through the loop of the buckle. All it takes is a twitch of his wrist, and it snaps tight, sliding against his throat until the buckle is seated right beneath his jaw. Gabriel doesn’t even blink, just sucks in a deep breath and licks his lips. 

Jesse slides one hand into Gabe’s hair, holding it so tightly that Gabe wonders if he’ll pull it out by the roots, but the other hand firmly grasps the end of the belt, fingers rubbing and kneading at the soft leather. Their eyes lock again, and Jesse sees something approaching affirmation there. That’s all he needs; he yanks at the belt like a leash, and it tightens into a noose around his throat, giving enough force and pressure to close his windpipe entirely. His subconscious automatically tries to breathe in, tries to fight it off, to breathe, to live -- Gabriel forces that part of himself into submission. His lungs ache, chest tight, head growing fuzzy remarkably fast, and as a soldier he should be doing everything in his power to make this suffering end, but god- his cock is harder than it has been in weeks, straining at the fabric of his shorts. 

Jesse watches his face slacken in mixed pleasure and pain, the whites of his eyes showing and the tip of his bloodied tongue poking out, and he can’t help but indulge. “Stay there, darlin’,” he groans, and quickly uses his free hand to unzip himself, shoving his boxers down enough to pull himself free. Gabriel’s lips are trembling and pale when Jesse releases his grip, letting him fill his lungs with enough air to set him wheezing. “You wanna give me somethin’ in return?” 

“Shut the fuck up, McCree.” 

Even as he’s snapping at him, he’s reaching for Jesse’s cock, wasting no time on foreplay; no teasing, cautious touches here. He wraps his fingers tight around him, then thinks better of it and pulls his hand back, spitting a fat glob of saliva into his hand and trying again. It slides down his shaft, slick and warm, starting up a fast rhythm designed to get him off fast. Jesse doesn’t bother holding back moans anymore, thinking more about rewarding himself than Gabriel. When he snaps his wrist again he feels his grip tighten at the base of his cock, squeezing, and though it hurts, just a little, he can’t help but rock his hips forward into it, needing more, whether it’s pleasure or pain. 

He watches Gabriel’s chest spasm as it tries to pull in air, watches his mouth move around nothing, watches spit and blood drool down his face and catch in his beard. His lips are almost blue when he lets go the next time, and Gabriel coughs, blinking away stars and huffing for breath. But this time, he stays silent; no witty retort or not-so-subtle threats, just his hoarse breathing. 

Jesse figures that’s good enough for another reward. 

His own cock is leaking into Gabe’s fist, balls throbbing with need, when he leans back, letting go of Gabriel’s hair in favor of trailing a hand from his knee up his thigh, sliding his fingers beneath the hem of his basketball shorts. The touch is oddly gentle as compared to the vicegrip of the belt, which has snapped taut once again; the dichotomy has Gabriel twitching and squirming, unable to decide which one he wants more of. If he could moan, he would, but as it stands all he can manage to produce is a pathetic gurgling sound, eyes rolling back as he thrusts his thigh closer to Jesse’s touch. Never once does the hand on Jesse’s cock stop moving, as if it’s nothing but muscle memory, as if he were born to service him like this. 

“You like that, huh?” He teases, running his fingers over the crease of his balls, thumb twisting to stroke against his perineum. That touch produces a nice sound from Gabe, too, so he repeats the motion, rubbing more firmly, until Gabe is quiet and his hand goes still against his cock; when he glances back up, he realizes Reyes is seconds from passing out. He loosens his grip, but doesn’t panic or ask him if he’s okay, just keeps touching that spot, clearing his throat as a reminder to keep jerking him off. They both prefer it this way. Gabriel takes a second for himself, huffing and puffing, before his hand starts moving again, running his thumb over Jesse’s fat foreskin, pulling it back a little to rub circles around the slit of the head.

“Atta boy,” he breathes, rewards him by squeezing his sac, gently rolling his balls in his hand. “One more, do one more for me.” It almost sounds like a question, but Gabriel doesn’t get the chance to say anything at all before he’s going for it anyway. He pulls his hand out of Gabe’s shorts and brings them to his mouth, breathing in the heavy, dirty scent of his balls: a smell of sweat, pheromones, sex. A shiver overtakes him, and he shoves his hand back down, grabbing his own balls to mirror what he’d done for Gabriel, touching his own perineum and shoving his hand further down to rub a finger against his asshole, rocking down against it.

Gabe squeaks beneath the belt, jerking him off faster and hoping to god he can white out this time, adrenaline all but replacing the blood in his veins. His own cock is hard enough that a single touch would incapacitate him, but Jesse isn’t merciful enough for that. He lifts his other hand to Jesse’s dick, bringing his hands together to form a tight channel around his meaty cock, and Jesse takes immediate advantage, eagerly fucking his hands, unashamed and unabashed. 

“Oh, fuck, jefe, I’m gonna- Jesus fuck- Mary ‘n Joseph-” He breaks off into a short but incomprehensible shout, eyes locked on Gabriel’s face to drink in every miniscule detail: the bloody spit beading on his lips, the pinprick of tears at the corner of his eyes, the way his dark skin is flushed even darker with the blood Jesse has trapped there, the look of predatory lust, even as he’s choked half to death--

He spurts across Gabriel’s face, painting lewd lines of semen across his nose and forehead, a few lucky globs landing in Gabriel’s open mouth, mixing with the other fluids already there. He drops the belt, and gets to hear Gabe’s desperate gasps for air as he finishes, only enhancing everything else. He humps at both of their hands for a second longer, grinding down against his own fingers, before he goes still, panting as though he’d been the one choking. After a minute he pulls his hands away, rubbing the sweat off his forehead and upper lip.

“Get the fuck up,” Gabe grunts, shoving at Jesse’s thick thighs. “If you’re not gonna get me off, get your heavy ass up so I can do it myself.” It’s an invitation, but Jesse just laughs, heaving himself back onto his feet; seeing Jesse like this, cock hanging out of his jeans, still thick and heavy with blood, is nearly enough to make Gabe cum in his pants. 

“Nah, boss. I already gave you your present. Here in Blackwatch it’s every man for himself. Have fun, darlin’.”


End file.
